May 272015


A Fetish For Men: By Gloria G. Brame

Men filled in the time while I waited for a love miracle to occur.

Besides, every new man was a universe of unanswered questions

and unknown potentials. Any one of them might be The

One. You couldn’t know until you talked to them whether they

were the one who had the key to the gate that let you onto the

path to a happy new life. So, when I met someone who seemed

to penetrate to my inner reality, someone sexy, someone different

from the others, how could I not fling myself with abandon

into the relationship in hopes that I could be on the road to

discovering a new home, a new family, a new life?

By the summer of 1972, when I was turning seventeen, though,

I was starting to think that there were just too many men in the

world ever to commit to any one of them. It wasn’t because I

couldn’t limit myself, it’s just that there was such a profusion, it

was impossible to sort them out or take them seriously, even

when they acted serious.

Never mind the catcalls and whistles, the muscle cars that

rolled up to ask if I wanted a lift, and forget the generic lustbots

who suddenly materialized like there was a magnet in my ass.

They were the wallpaper of urban life. Every Brooklyn girl knew

how to deflect them with a swift but murderous side-glare.

The bigger problem was that the number of men hitting on me

was growing incrementally while my appetite for them was unchanged.

I didn’t know how to deal with the new ratio. It wasn’t my looks:

I vanished in any crowd of ethnic girls. All my girlfriends

were prettier than me. I wasn’t sexy like the snobby girls

who wore tight sweaters and lipsticks that matched their

moods. I was a grungy hippie.

It was my tits. I just knew it. They were a curse on my life. So

many of my girlfriends had perky tits, tits that didn’t require

massive brassieres with three hooks in the back and shoulder

straps that left deep welts. My natural D-cups were, to me, unnatural

monstrosities, insulting vestiges of the primal past. The

only good purpose they had ever served was tit fucking boys

so I could watch them shoot off right under my chin.

But no matter how much I tried to play them down with army

shirts and chino pants, my tits drew men in like moths to a

Mosquito-Deleto. It was like they invisibly leaked an intoxicating

fuck me” fume.


This mysterious animal magnetism led to situations where your

only choice was to run or to suffer and doubt your own identity.


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